Visiting Hours
by Wisecrack Idiots
Summary: Didn't matter how well you could fight, how good your equipment was, or how lucky you were. Somehow, somewhere down the line, you would end up in Recovery. And no matter how well you could sabotage the medical wing or formulate escape plans, you would always get dragged back. Nine times out of ten kicking and screaming.


This is proof that I have way too much free time on my hands. Or not enough free time, since I'm using these to de-stress from college finals. Take your pick.

Most of these are going to be interconnected one-shots centered around the Freelancers, roughly set through Seasons 9 and 10. I'll be trying to include the entire cast as they all (at some point) end up in Recovery. Expect humor, angst, drama, and everything in between. And who better to debut this kick-off than our good ol' friend, Agent Maine? (Warnings for gore, swearing, innuendos, and excessive mustache.)

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**Summary:** In that second everything changed.

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**Chapter One: Scream a Little Louder**

The ability to be aware of one's self was a terrifying thing.

Especially when the timespan bridging past to present was nothing but morphine fog and empty checkboxes where memory should have been. Irregular breaks in the Fibonacci sequence, exploitable flaws. Vulnerability. _Weakness_.

That recognition was enough to kickstart his instincts.

The first thing Maine was aware of were voices. Indistinct sounds at first, an inconsequential static hum at the edge of his mind as his conscience parachuted back to him from whatever stratosphere it had been launched into. Gravity was taking its damn time in restoring his senses to him, it seemed, because they felt sluggish and sub-par. Or maybe that was the drugs they'd pumped into him.

Whoever the hell "they" were, anyway.

Nothing happened for a solid minute—or maybe longer; he had no way of knowing—as the Freelancer continued to drift aimlessly in a vacuum of secondhand impressions and internal haze. If he concentrated, he could almost string the noises together into something recognizable.

"…is taking too long. The medics said he should have been awake by now."

"Would you quit pacing? You're going to wear a hole into the floor."

"Oh, let him fret. If he wants to buff the floor later then he's more than welcome to it. Might give the janitorial staff a break. And who knows, maybe the lad will have found his _true calling_—on his knees."

"You speaking from experience? 'Cause that would certainly explain a lot."

"Both of you, knock it off." The brisk order was enough to silence their juvenile bickering. For now. Tension edged her tone like a knifeblade, serrating her words. "This is a hospital. At least try to act your rank."

"If that's the case, then our dear Allison is certainly living up to hers. They do say one is the loneliest number—"

"_Quiet_."

"Dearie me, I seem to have struck a nerve."

Voices had names. At least, they should have. This one was so familiar, with its ear-grating bur and foreign vocabulary. It should have had a name. The inability to recall it sent a thrill of frustration through his conscience like a lightning bolt. Maybe there was no name. No, not a name―a number. Numbers were important, if the context of the conversation was a reliable source to go by; at least, a more reliable source compared to his disjointed memories. Numbers were certainly a far cry more valuable and noteworthy than forgettable names and even more forgettable faces. But which one _was it?_ Six? Eight? Two?

Four?

― _44__th__ state of the United States, lines of latitude 41°N to 45°N, Gannett Peak 4,209 meters in elevation, 45 major waterfalls in Yellowstone_ ―

Four.

_Wyoming._

Some clarification, though it didn't put much of a dent in his understanding of the situation. There was still that irritating lacuna to fill.

"―_enemy team outside__―__"_

"_Protect the briefcase!"_

"_No!"_

"…_vitals are falling. We need to stabilize."_

Flashes, snapshots, impressions. No closure. Only tantalizing hints of the jigsaw pieces lying just out of reach.

Was the cost of information so overpriced that Maine couldn't get a damn answer around here? The need to hit something, as second-nature to him as breathing and sleeping were, clotted his thoughts.

He clenched his fist.

And instantly regretted it.

"Look! I think he's coming to!"

"See? What did I tell you?"

"All you told me was to_ stop pacing_."

"Sodding hell, they're going at it again."

If there was that much fanfare waiting for him, then honestly, Maine was seriously considering just staying unconscious. Nothing grated on his nerves more than others insisting that he be the center of attention. Especially when his teammates fussed―not that they ever visibly fussed over him to his face, but the sheer knowledge of them…_concerned_…over his wellbeing was enough to make bile rise in his throat. That he should ever be in a position to be pitied was unacceptable. All it ever served was reminder of when his concussive, deathstrike strength failed him; of chinks in his armor that never should've existed to begin with; of being compromised; imperfection, failure.

_Humanity_.

Consciousness was fading back. Heartbeat retort jumped down his throat, tribal drumstrokes against his ribcage. Suddenly Maine _felt_ his airways circulating in tandem with each rise and fall of his chest.

Awareness.

Pinpricks of harsh light erupted across his vision, blindingly white and too sterile and clean to be anything but the loathed medical ward. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

Everything was off-center and burred. The abrupt brightness and distortion sent a wave of renewed pain through his head, like his skull was splitting along the suture lines. Instinctively the Agent blindly lifted a hand and groped for his temple, if only to apply pressure.

Unexpected hands counteracted his movements, weighing the limp appendage back down against the cot.

"Easy, Maine." This time, when he blinked in the direction of the voice, his vision had cleared enough to make out a teal-blue helmet and yellow visor. One last blink, and Carolina melted back into view. The gloved hand gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. "You need to take it slowly. Just lay back down."

For once the massive man wasn't overly inclined to protest, not when his bones felt like they were coated with liquid lead. Instead, Maine lolled his head back a fraction, enough to place his other visitors within his periphery vision.

And instantly felt his hackles rise.

Washington, York, Wyoming, _and_ North, all of them either sitting in absconded chairs dragged up next to his bedside, or standing a few paces off. The medical staff made it abundantly clear that no amount greater than three visitors at a time were permitted. Mostly for arbitrary reasons like "too much traffic" getting underfoot―stupid things that the Agents frequently scoffed at, or (in the case of Texas and Carolina) simply ignored. No medic had succeeded yet in stopping them from getting their way, and that wasn't about to change.

But this felt _wrong_. On the rare occasions Maine _had_ been admitted to Recovery, normally it was either Carolina or Washington who came to see how he was feeling.

_Why so many?_

Better to let them talk to him, tell him what he _wanted_ to hear rather than demand what they_ didn't_ want to give him. No point in risking them clamming up if he made his suspicions aware. Silence and patience afforded him so much more that way.

"Hey, buddy." Relief bled out of Washington's posture as he rocked back on his heels. He offered him a small smile that to Maine's wary eyes seemed too forced. Too strained. "I'm glad you're awake. I―well, 'we,' technically―we've missed having you on missions. It's been…weird, not having you watching our six. I mean, you've always been really quiet, but it's even quieter now."

York rolled his eyes, his face pinched just slightly from the soreness that gesture must have inflicted upon the tendon. Maine tried not to feel bad about that. "Translated from Wash-speak: 'It's good to have you back.'"

Back from what?

How long was he out?

Superfluous sentiments weren't high on his to-do list and Maine illustrated such with the flat, withering expression spared on his friend. Wash was accustomed to the other Agent's idiosyncrasies―the jawgrinding, the eye-narrowing―to know where to push and pull, and where to simply back off.

It didn't escape his attention, the way Wash's gray eyes darted to North.

Taking his cue from the other blonde, North stepped in, edging a few inches closer. No doubting the sincerity of his concern, as open as a gaping wound, but no denying the _wariness_ tinging it, either. Pattern-breakers that Maine acutely noticed and interlaced an underlying tension in his muscles. "You weren't the only one who got hit. Wyoming took a plasma shot to the torso―Command had to call in an extraction for us."

The Brit lightly snorted under his breath and leaned back into his seat. "Never thought I'd see the day where I got a front row seat to my _intestines_ without the help of an x-ray." Mild amusement caught in his drawl. "Never realized you had such a weak gag reflex either, mate."

The sharpshooter deigned to ignore that comment.

York, off to his right, offered a lopsided shrug. "I still wish I could unsee that. There's a reason why your insides are supposed to stay _inside_."

Light banter with nothing useful to offer him. Figures.

"At least you didn't have to dive off a building," Washington muttered under his breath.

"Because falling through the air is _so much harder_ than being shot at by every plodder in the damn city," scoffed Wyoming. "At least you weren't catching bullets with your bloody torso."

"What the hell is a 'plodder'?" The locksmith leaned far enough into the white armor to lightly shoulder Wyoming's side. "Can't you use standard English like everybody else on this ship?"

Predictably the other man shoved York back. Ever since Wyoming had begun vying for York's spot on the Leaderboard the two had been at odds. Normally they took to displaying their occasional animosity in the form of sparring on the floor, or juvenile pranks.

Like bickering children. A comparison that was not lost on Maine, and annoyed him greatly.

"You do recall that American English evolved from British English, correct?" Chin tilted up fractionally, his voice dripped with the sort of aloof pride that Maine could all but see beneath the yellow visor. It was a look everyone was familiar with by now. It was also a look everyone had wanted to smack off his face at one point or another.

"Yeah, well it's an evolutionary dead end," York shot back.

"Doesn't the UNSC offer grants to divisions of the military that promote or celebrate cultural diversity?" Wash piped up, his attention firmly fixed on the gold and white soldiers. Avoiding Maine's gaze.

"I…think that might be illegal," North mused, almost to himself. "If not morally questionable."

As if their jobs weren't already morally questionable.

"I think you might be on to something," York springboarded off of that comment like a man with a death wish. "Probably why the Director hired him, 'cause it sure as hell wasn't for his aim."

"I'm going to poison you in your sleep."

One more word. One more word, and Maine wasn't going to be held responsible for his actions.

When he made to lift his arm Carolina wasn't quick enough to halt the motion, and the appendage made it halfway off the cot―

Two I.V.s gleamed diamond-cold from where they were embedded in his elbow.

He froze.

Involuntarily he flinched away from the sight of the needles. Revulsion burned like acid in his veins, eyes scrutinizing them with laserpoint-intensity. Saline solution and a drug of unknown make. Out of the corner of his vision he was distantly aware of his captive audience refocusing on him; the way they collectively held their breaths, the way York and Washington swapped furtive stares, the way Carolina's grip on the chair became impossibly tight.

His pulse climbed in his ears, anxiety escalating against his will. Maine grit his teeth. Their presence made known meant he could _feel_ the needles biting into his skin―a place they had no right being.

An intrusion the man had every intention of correcting.

Before he could reach over and rip them from his arm Carolina shot forward, grabbing his wrist and stilling him midair. "Maine." Everything about the tension, the bonesnap brittleness, the caution in her voice that had no right being there―everything about it was _wrong_. Predator instincts discharged adrenaline through his blood in response to the gathering storm on Carolina's lips. He could taste the ozone in his mouth.

"You need to keep those in you." Every word a thunderclap. "You were…badly hurt. Those are helping you get bet better."

Slow, rehearsed speech. Deliberately vague answers crafted for a child that had strayed too close to the truth.

_Lies._

With a glare he shrugged off her touch, expression as plainly impatient as he could make it. Sugarcoating held no interest for a man who'd long ago traded in his sweet tooth for biting reality. Sympathy left a bitter aftertaste.

Their redoubtable leader knew that, as surely as she knew that he knew, and that was a realization that Carolina couldn't hide behind her teal helmet. Refusing the possibility of guilt, rejecting the possibility of his own weakness, denying her empathy―

_Because there was nothing he hated more._

Silent, Maine's penetrating stare pinned her. Waiting for the explanation she owed him.

Behind the visor Maine could almost imagine her emerald eyes, her sharp lines. Her resignation. "The mission was a success. We managed to retrieve the Sarcophagus and briefcase…"

"―_tect the briefcase!"_

"_Sniper!"_

"…and in the process we caused a setback in the Insurrectionists' movements." An unspoken signal rippled through the Agents bordering him. All of the times they trained together, fought together―Maine knew how to recognize a stance. Recognized their stances. Read between the lines.

Saw their fear.

Hesitation, a heartbeat in which Carolina retracted the hand on his wrist back to her side. Buying time. "How much do you remember?"

Why would he be asking about his own injuries if he could remember how he got them?

Annoyance was rapidly bleeding into anger. Maine's eyes adopted a steely flint, chips of ice devoid of his dwindling tolerance. Again, he attempted sit up―I.V.s tugging against his skin as the plastic tubes strained against the movement―and bit back a snarl at how sluggish he still felt. Damn the fucking medics, just how many painkillers did they poison him with?

His head turned a fraction to the left, reading the label on the drip bag overshadowing his bedside.

It wasn't morphine.

_Benzodiazepine._

A tranquilizer. Chemical shackles.

They were sedating him.

"_What happened to me__―__?"_

He'd meant to scream the words. Fling them in their faces and hurt them with the venom dripping off each syllable.

A broken, gurgling snarl was the only thing that came out.

The sound was so surprising that Maine actually paused. Nobody moved.

Thinking the muscles were simply lagging, he parted his jaws and tried again_. "What happened__―__?"_

More distorted growls. This time his throat burned with the effort.

Washington gaped at him, his face anguished. "Oh, God…"

Reality grinded to a halt, a sickeningly sadistic halt, while time held its breath. Waiting.

Questing (_shaking_) hands reached up to his neck, searching for answers that he wasn't even sure he wanted. Maine didn't know what he expected to find, but a cervical brace certainly wasn't it. Fingertips ghosted over the fabric and plastic, over the contours and curves.

He exploded into action.

Renewed strength surged through his body as he sprang off the cot, a fist lashing out and ramming into North's jaw with a satisfying_ crunch_. Through the blood roaring in his ears and the pounding in his head he could hear voices, panicked yells, a woman shouting for someone to go get the Director. Displaced air, the only warning that York was trying to grab him―the locksmith was swatted away with a force no sedative could temper.

The pole hooked up to the I.V.s wheeled after him. Maine roared, and with a vicious tug the needles were torn from his arm, sending a spray of fresh blood over the tiles.

― _too clean, false brilliance, pyrite, lies ―_

"Maine! Stop!"

He didn't stop.

A doctor was barreling toward him―lab coats and skinned teeth―a syringe in his hand raised for the plunge.

Maine ducked, too gripped by his own temper to pay the sharp pain in his spine any heed, and placed a solid roundhouse kick to the medic's side. Like a house of cards the man crumpled to the ground, a howl of agony following the vicious inertia.

No seconds to spare. The Agent was a white and gold-accented blur, adrenaline feeding the fire he could feel consuming him. On a level that bypassed thought, that bypassed words, he knew what he was looking for.

Maine found it in one of the hallways of Recovery, as unobtrusive as everything else, stark and gleaming with the reflected lights against its surface.

He skidded to an ungraceful halt in front of the mirror, ignoring the congregation of people he'd left running in his wake, and grabbed the neck brace. His breath came out in ragged pants as he snapped the Velcro apart and flung the brace onto the floor.

The image staring back at him nearly made him vomit.

Black stitches sloped in jagged lines across his skin. Inflamed, knotted scar tissue coiled around his throat like a snake, disfigured beyond recognition. A crater-like depression no bigger than a pistol round concaved the skin between his thyroid and jugular, spiraling out in fleshy, congealed, blood-encrusted sutures. Raw skin pulsating red from how close the arteries were to the surface now.

"Sir, we've got to restrain him. He's going to hurt himself," one of the medics was saying

"Sticking him with rhino tranqs isn't going to solve anything!" Washington snapped.

The argument in the background muted when Maine carefully lifted a hand to his throat. Tremors he was powerless to stop caused his fingers to shake as he delicately traced over the wound. The texture was coarse and rough, the soft touches excruciating like sandpaper against his skin even as he probed and explored, gasped and shuddered.

Throughout it all he couldn't tear his eyes away from the stranger staring back at him. Another person was walking around with a mangled throat; another person was gaping open-mouthed and wide-eyed.

It wasn't him who was on the verge of breaking down.

He had to say something. _Anything_.

It took considerable effort to swallow the knot in his throat, and even then the muscles felt like they were sticking.

_Maine_.

The hacking, guttural noise that fell from his lips wasn't his name. It wasn't even human.

Desperately, he tried to force the sound out, his heart skipping a beat when a string of growls was the reward for his efforts. Another gravelly hiss was coughed out when Maine made a third attempt.

A fresh trickle of blood beaded down his throat from one of the sutures.

Pressure squeezed down on his shoulder, foreign and unwelcome. "Maine, please sto―"

Washington was sent stumbling back when Maine slapped him.

The dam broke.

A broken howl erupted from his throat as Maine descended upon the mirror with unholy wrath. Serrated glass cracked and splintered beneath his fist as he punched the surface, one blow after another, his hate numbing him to the shards ripping open his knuckles. Fractures spiderwebbed across the pane, wet with blood.

The medics were too timid to interrupt his savaging, cowering as they were against the wall. And none of his teammates dared try to stop him.

Finally the adrenaline began to ebb. As quickly as the energy had burst through him it seeped out. Leaving him saturated in the wreck of his own emotions.

Shock, more than exhaustion, had Maine collapsing to his knees. Harsh gasps that stung his throat rattled through him like a dead wind.

He felt something burn behind his eyes.

Armor scraped across the floor, footfalls clattering in his eardrums, and a second later Carolina was prying off her helmet and crouching next to him. There was no fight left in him to shove her off him as she rested a hand on his shoulder. Red hair spilled across her face as she gazed unflinchingly at their reflections in the broken mirror.

"You were shot in the throat by one of the Insurrectionists. When we found you below the highway, you were bleeding out. The _Mother of Invention_ was too far away, so we had to dock at a civilian medical station. The medics said you were going to die." Carolina's voice was hollow, leaden with the emotions she was struggling to shelve for his sake. "After the surgery you were kept in a zero gravity environment for a week, to ensure that the ship's replicated natural weight didn't crush your throat."

The fingers on his shoulder tightened painfully.

"You've been breathing through a tube for almost two weeks." She sounded like she wanted to cry. Carolina never would. A good thing, too (_because if she started he might have as well)._ "They couldn't save everything."

He felt his throat constrict.

"You'll never talk again." No amount of apologies could ever equate to the _I'm sorry_ reverberating in her voice.

Clenched fists curled over the tile, smearing blood over the metal floor. As Maine steadily gazed at the pathetic animal hunched before the glass, a rasping keen spilled from his throat.

He almost wished they hadn't saved him.

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Have some feels.

Don't worry, this fic does get happier. ;) I just really wanted to explore Maine's realization and reaction to him becoming mute. Next chapter should bring about some joy and fluffiness and general Freelancer shenanigans.


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